dramatic spans
years and years of waiting
to get exactly what you want
in what you do
you reflect the need to wait for the return
of a particular quality of light,
time of day,
or time of year,
in order to proceed
selecting the mood
waiting for the right
time to unfold
about your struggles
with uncooperative weather
or other alterations in your chosen motifs,
in your effort to record faithfully
what you see and feel
all very impressive
such excessive literalness
your only aim,
devoid of interest
early surrealistic images
to recent staccato cityscape
and suave sculptures
and refined poetry
you were never literal
because at the end
you put the last line
exactly,
truth is never exact as they always
want to see and
write about it
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem